


Something Like a Melody

by alabaster_wings



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Feels, Fluff, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Sweetness, a broken heart is always worth fixing, again...feels, brb crying, cuteness of course, harry is so sweet but so down on himself, harry just might be the other half of louis, i love tags, i'm not sure, i'm unsure, just kidding, lots of feels, louis is the cutest little thing ever, oh well, okay there probs aren't THAT many feels, plot? who needs plot when you've got ADD tendencies?, possibly, skinny jeans play a very large roll, so many feels, sweet talk doesn't always get you nowhere, there should be SOME plot, this entire thing was written while listening to the midnight memories soundtrack, yeah okay there's probs gonna be some smut in this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 08:44:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alabaster_wings/pseuds/alabaster_wings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry doesn't ever take his earphones out. Louis is determined to find out what he listens to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Like a Melody

Harry isn't entirely sure what the world actually sounds like anymore.

He knows the dull sound of the water beating against his back in the shower and the sounds of his footsteps muffled and just barely audible through the ever-present din of his music. Sometimes if he tries really hard he can hear his own breathing too, but that's usually too painful and too  _real_ for him to handle it for any length of time at all.

It's "Los Angeles" by The Audition this morning.

As he lays in the grass and stares rather determindedly at the sky, Harry reminds himself that he isn't upset with the world. He  _isn't_. He just...well, he can't handle the world right now. Or ever, it feels. He can't handle the sounds of little kids laughing or of adults gossiping or of traffic or of flirting (even if it's toward him) or of anything at all really. Except his music, of course.

Deciding that he won't like the sky no matter how long he squints at it, Harry heaves a heavy sigh that he winces at because he can  _hear_ it in his chest. There isn't anything he hates more than the sound of his own breathing. It's too heavy, too much of a reminder.

All Harry Styles wants to do is  _forget_.

Maybe if he could forget his name or his life or even everything but the lyrics to his favorite songs, then maybe he wouldn't mind the sky or his breathing so much.

But he  _can't_ , so he  _does_.

Niall calls him overdramatic and Liam thinks he should, like,  _see_ someone of the professional variety about it. But. Well. It's easy to pretend you just can't hear someone when you've got music blaring in your ears twenty-four hours a day. It's a bit of a feat in itself, really, that his eardrums are even still intact after nearly six months of this madness.

So Harry pulls himself to his feet and takes a moment to orient himself before shoving his hands deep into his pockets and slumping his shoulders as he weaves his way around the park slowly. The park is one of those few places that can be completely drowned out by his music, and it's become his safe haven. Especially on Saturday mornings when the only people that are there are a handful of elderly people enjoying the weather and the occasional jogger. 

_Bliss._

The park wasn't somewhere she ever wanted to go, no matter how much Harry begged or pleaded. She didn't like the way Harry would turn wide open, like he was back to being the seven year old that would chase butterflies and fireflies until he just absolutely couldn't anymore. She didn't like sitting in the grass, it made her itchy which inadvertently turned into whining and complaining. And, honestly, Harry has a suspicion that she didn't like the park for the sole reason that he absolutely  _adored_ it. 

Shrugging out of those thoughts by turning his music up a few notches, Harry's shoulders hunch even more and his chin drops to stare dejectedly at his feet as he walks. There isn't really anything for him to do today; he doesn't have work, he doesn't have class, and he doesn't exactly have friends. So.

So he keeps walking slowly around the park as he works his way through his playlist. It's all new music, all new forms of distraction that take focus and concentration. The more energy he has to put into making his steps fall in time with the beat of the song, the less energy he can put into  _not_ thinking.

Not thinking seems to have become his most frequent pasttime lately. 

And then he goes and bumps into someone. The force of it nearly knocks the other person off their feet and Harry almost loses his earphones in the process of reaching a hand out and steadying the person he just rammed into. He mumbles a soft, "Sorry," that he can't even hear as he keeps his head down and moves to continue his walk.

Eye contact is another one of those things he can't handle anymore.

A small hand curls around his forearm and his head shoots up in surprise. He overshoots how high he's looking and has to drop his eyes a few inches lower, startled by his findings. A boy three or four inches shorter than him with wide, child-like blue eyes and feathery brown hair that looks  _really_ soft is staring at him with a puzzled sort of smile on his face, like he isn't sure if he should be polite or charming or possibly both.

Harry turns down his music, just a notch, and waits silently for this curvacious boy to say something. His own voice is just about as bad as his breathing, really, because it's  _his_.

"Harry, right? 'M Louis. We've Liberal Arts together," Louis says sweetly, his voice lilting and sugary and not at all fake. He  _actually_ sounds like that.

Harry thinks he might've drooled if Louis hadn't just made a fatal error by saying Harry's name out loud, which causes a rathre violent flinch from the boy in question and he nods slowly to show that he understands what Louis is saying. Or maybe that he can hear what's being said. He hasn't really decided what he wants to convey just yet.

Louis' lips purse at Harry's complete lack of interaction, the action coming across as ridiculously pouty and drawing direct attention to his full lips. It isn't an action done on accident. "Whatcha listening to?" he tries, a sparkle in his eyes.

Harry's shoulders roll and he relaxes enough to slip more oxygen into his lungs and wet his lips before saying as quietly as he can manage, "La Rivalita by The Audition." He should really turn to leave, but he likes the way Louis lights up when he speaks and he likes the sound of Louis' voice. So.

So he stays and turns down his music another bump.

"Never heard of 'em. Any good?" Louis appears totally nonplussed that Harry isn't taking out his earphones or making any visible moves to tune more into the conversation. He really just looks genuinely happy that Harry has spoken at all.

Harry's brow furrows as he shrugs, noncommital as ever. As much as he may like the sound of Louis' little lilt, he does  _not_ like the rest of the sounds creeping in in his efforts to better hear the beautiful voice of the boy speaking to him. He has half a mind to ask this winsome creature back to his just so he can remove his earbuds without the fear of hearing something other than that lovely voice.

Of course, there would be the matter of his own voice and his own breathing. But that would have to wait.

Louis is unaffected by the lack of an answer, nodding like he takes the shrug to heart, "Why don't you tell me about some bands you  _do_ like? Over tea, or coffee if you're into that?" His eyes are so wide and so blue and so eager that Harry hurts with how much he wants to say yes to this exuberant boy in front of him.

But he can't. There are too many things pressing against his chest.

So he drops his gaze to his feet and shakes his head slowly, "Can't."  _Won't_ , his mind whispers. His response to his inner self is to bump his music back up a touch. It helps, at least for the moment. 

He should leave now.

He doesn't.

Louis' reply is faint over the opening notes of "Avalanche" by Zola Jesus, "I never gave you a date or a time."

Damn, he has a point. Harry feels like such a tool, but he forces himself to shrug. His jaw aches with the familiar urge to scream from self-irritation. Nothing upsets him more than having to be an asshole to people because he doesn't know how to get over things. He knows he's weak, he knows he's incapable of ever really being strong again, and he knows he's hopelessly pathetic, but that doesn't mean he has to be a terrible person as well.

Only, it does.

Harry is submerged in soundwaves once again as he turns and returns his music to its original volume, sighing quietly and working his shoulders up and down to try to wiggle the painful feeling from his chest. It doesn't work, but it hardly ever does. The thing about Harry's pain is that it's really the only thing that keeps him alive anymore. If it weren't for the pain, he worries that he wouldn't feel anything at all.

He feels the barest tug on his shirt, but it's too easy to pull free and pretend like it didn't happen at all. He isn't certain if Louis the beautiful boy  _knows_ about what happened to Harry over the summer, but he feels certain that the light behind those wide blue eyes would dim considerably if Harry ever told him. Liam and Niall were the only ones who didn't treat him differently, the only ones who didn't look at him as if Bliss had taken something vital from him. 

If his behavior over the past few months is any indication, then she most definitely taken something vastly important from him. 

Too bad he can't just ask for it back. You know, since she's dead and all.

Liam is waiting at the park entrance for Harry, his sunglasses on and his arms crossed over his chest. He gives a faint smile when his best friend comes into view, but it doesn't stretch across his face like it used to. It doesn't do that often these days. He waves, not even bothering with saying an acutal hello out loud anymore. He knows it just makes Harry feel guilty that he can't hear it over the din of his music, and he knows it makes Harry feel even worse that he doesn't have the courage to turn down his music enough to be able to hear it.

So they don't talk.

Niall suggested sign language once, but Harry felt dumb doing that. He feels dumb doing a lot of things, be he especially feels dumb doing things that enable him to talk without using his words. It's bad enough that he texts his best friends when he wants to talk to them (on the rare occasion that he does), but he doesn't think he could handle the mortification of turning to using sign language when he's just too cowardly to face the real world and the sounds that come along with it.

"Bloodstream" by Stateless relaxes Harry into the passenger seat of Liam's truck, but he keeps seeing bright eyes each time his eyelids flutter shut. Finally he straightens and sends Niall a text:  _  
_

_do you have louis t.'s #?_

-

Louis doesn't exactly remember when he decided he was in love with Harry Styles, but it was definitely much before Harry's girlfriend (er, ex, he supposes) ran the pair of them off of a bridge. From the rumors, they were fighting. From the hospital report that Louis had possibly gotten his mother to peek at, it had been a suicide on the point of Miss Bliss Renard. 

The thought of Harry Styles being dragged into that mess made Louis itch. He tries hard not to think about it often. Clearly, though, it's hard to  _not_ think about it when Harry walks around with earphones in literally all the time and a deadness in his lovely eyes that should never have to be there. He barely speaks a word anymore, even though Louis can vividly remember times when he would watch Harry in class or in the halls or even in the park as he would ramble on and on and on  and on. Granted, he was always a slow talker and his voice had this gravely, narrator quality that was almost amusing.

But Louis still thinks it's the most beautiful voice he's ever heard.

He isn't entirely sure what he had seen when he'd sprung himself on Harry at the park, but it had been enough to surprise him when Harry had rejected his offer of a somewhat-possibly-date-thing. He isn't even entirely sure if Harry plays for the pink team, but if not, Louis surely could've played the whole thing off as wanting to be best mates.

Okay, that would have sucked too.

Louis is abruptly shaken from his Worst Possible Scenarios when his phone vibrates wildly across the seat of the bench next to him. Grabbing it up, his eyebrows lift to his hair when he reads what it very blurrily printed on the screen before him:

_hi, lou. its harry. from the park? sorry for being rude. wanna meet at the library? i can give you some music if you want._

This is certainly a development Louis has  _not_ forseen. He isn't even certain if he's reading it correctly. He's too lazy to remember contacts and too forgetful to remember glasses, so his terrible eyesight is really only giving him every thrid or so letter of the text. He hopes that he's reading it right, because his heart just might break into a million pieces if he's wrong.

And then something else hits him so hard that he tumbles off the bench;  _oh my goodness, he called me Lou_. Louis is rather acutely aware that he looks utterly ridiculous, but bigger things are weighing on the forefront of his mind. Like what in the name of Jesus he's going to reply back.

"Right, Lou, you know how to text a cute boy. On with it," he tells himself firmly, rolling his eyes at the elderly couple that gives him an odd look. He chews determinedly on his bottom lip and types with one thumb while reaching into his pocket and dialing Zayn on his other phone. While he waits to gush over the news, he ends up sending:

_you are never rude, darling. im free whenever youll have me :)_

Louis worries over the endearment until Zayn picks up and sounds annoyed at being woken up at four in the afternoon, "Yes, dear?" Zayn's annoyed is a normal person's happy and sweet. It's adorable.

"I AM MEETING HARRY STYLES AT THE LIBRARY AND I FEEL LIKE I MIGHT HAVE A HEART ATTACK BECAUSE I CALLED HIM DARLING OVER TEXT AND HE HASN'T RESPONDED YET AND, ZAYN, I NEED YOUR HELP," Louis rushes out as loudly as he can, hoping the entire world knows that he, Louis William Tomlinson the first, will be meeting up with the most glorious human being on the planet.

If Harry doesn't find him freaky and weird for that stupid "darling" comment he made on an impulse.

Zayn's deep rumble of laughter is the equalivent of a ten year old girl's giggle, "Sweetheart, I'm sure he's just pondering on how to respond to such a catch like yourself. Just be careful, Lou. I know you dream about him and shit, but that doesn't mean you have to go on a vendetta to save him or something."

"Yes, of course,  _mother_ ," Louis sneers affectionately, nearly dropping the phone pressed to his ear when the one in his lap vibrates again. "Gotta go now. I'll be there in five."

He doesn't bother to wait for a reply, already reading through squinted eyes:

_is six alright? meet me in the mystery section_

The dejection at the lack of a smiley in return is quickly replaced with a panic that  _oh goodness he only has an hour and a half to get ready so he can be fifteen minutes early and he has to shower and blow dry his hair and spend at least twenty minutes picking out just his boxers and oh goodnes--_

Acting classes have prepared him for this moment, and he manages to keep his mind clear enough to type out a slightly flirty and highly amusing response while he runs at full speed toward his flat:

_perfection, lovely boy. youre a bit of a mystery yourself, so i'll assume youre being ironic. see you in 2 :)_

Louis feels a little bit dumb trying again with the smiley face, but he usually does feel dumb about the things he does. At barely five feet, eight inches, Louis makes up for height in daring and humor. That means doing absurd things even at the cost of public humiliation and/or mortification. So, on the scale of things, sending a smiley face to a cute boy isn't exactly very high up there. Especially when the response is quick and heart-stopping:

_:)_

Zayn is very firmly holding Louis' blow dryer hostage when Louis bursts through the door of their two-room flat, already half naked and panting. He ducks into the bathroom after making a very strangled and wheezing sort of noise that causes his roommate to laugh. The shower is too rushed for Louis' liking, but he still makes sure to lather, rinse, and repeat with his deliciously fruity shampoo before scrubbing down with the conditioner and getting out. Zayn always tries to tell him that conditioner is for his  _hair_ and not his  _body_ , but Louis doesn't have the time to care about such trivial things.

But, secretly, he likes to irk Zayn just that little bit. Okay, maybe he likes to do that a lot.

With his hair sticking up in every direction possible, Louis hurries himself into the first pair of boxers his fingers touch and he quickly yanks a fresh pair of skinny jeans on. Turning to his roommate, he gives a sweet smile and takes a cautious step over the line that divides their sides of the room, "Sweetie, baby, Zayn, what are you doing with my dryer?"

"Promise me." The raven haired boy demands, no pretense and no preamble. 

Louis blinks as he adjusts to his glasses, trying again, "Lovely Zayn, can I please have the dryer?" When Zayn doesn't even bat an eye, Louis deflates, mumbling at his bare feet, "Fine. I promise that I won't do anything dumb without making sure he's in love with me. Happy?"

"Delighted," Zayn grins, tossing the dryer across the space between them and giggling at the panicked look on his roommate's face as Louis lunges to catch it.

Short on time already, Louis resists the urge to get into a sarcasm war and quickly feathers his fringe across his forehead and makes sure there isn't a drop of water left in his hair before pulling a black  Matchbox Twenty shirt over his head. Shoving a phone into each back pocket, he hurries a kiss onto Zayn's waiting cheek and offers up a nervous, "G'bye!"

Sprinting down the stairs, Louis forces himself to walk (or at least jog) to the library. The last thing he wants is to get there and be all sweaty and smelly. With how quickly he just had to throw himself together, he would be quite furious with himself for ruining such efforts.

His shoulders don't unwind until he's situated at a table right in front of the mysteries section, hands folded primly in front of him, and the clock proudly displaying that he's not fifteen but  _twenty_ minutes early. 

Louis grins rather crazily to himself for a moment before pulling out his fun phone and reading over his conversation with Harry once again. He hardly resists squealing in delight, and can't even attempt to resist wiggling around excitedly in his seat and offering up a fist pump to the dusty and untouched books surrouding him.

They don't fist pump back.

It isn't until Louis is reciting the conversation to himself softly under his breath that he spares a pained glance at the clock. Seven thirty and still no signs of Harry the hottie. The logical next step would be to call or text to make sure they weren't just in different spots or at different libraries (not that there was more than one in town, but still). So, of course, Louis' next step is to promptly burst into tears.

He calls Zayn, hiccuping out a few words, "I've been stood up by Harry Styles. My life is over."

-

Harry paces the length of his room and tries not to scream in frustration. He can't bear the sound of his own voice at the moment, though, so he doesn't. Instead he just turns up "Burn This City" by Cartel until the walls are vibrating with it. He hopes it keeps Liam and Niall from discussing him like some sort of science project, but he knows the attempt is hopeless.

As much as his best (and only) friends mean to him, they can be infuriating.

Especially when they refuse to let him leave the flat because they don't want him to hang out with Louis Tomlinson. Well, Liam is the one that's against it, but Niall always backs up Liam, so. 

So Harry can't even text Louis and tell him he can't make it.

Another pulse of dread shoots through his limbs as he sinks to the floor and stretches out flat on his back, arms and legs splayed out like a starfish. Sometimes if he can close his eyes and picture himself resting peacefully at the bottom of the ocean, the ache in his chest subsides just enough for his quiet sighs to be bearable. 

Now, unfortunately, is not one of those times.

Harry doesn't have to look up to know that Niall and Liam are lurking in the doorway, speaking through their eyes about who should handle the situation. Unsurprisingly, it's Niall that appears in Harry's line of vision, a tense smile on his face and a sympathetic softness in his eyes. He waves once, still his ridiculously sweet and adorable self. 

Harry waves back with just one finger, trying not to crack a smile. He's upset, and he doesn't feel that Niall should get off so easy. They should at least feel  _a little_ guilt for making him stand up a potential friend. 

Niall sits cross-legged next to his friend, dropping his chin into his waiting palms, "Sorry, sweetums." Harry can't actually hear him, but he's gotten rather skilled at reading lips. Niall's sort of terrible at enunciating, but Harry makes due.

Besides, these conversations typically go pretty much the exact same way each time. 

Harry shrugs, pursing his lips and fighting off the urge to wince as sadness rips through his chest anew. Louis, the first person besides Liam and Niall to even  _attempt_ to speak to Harry, was probably so royally angry at Harry that he wouldn't even bother to say hello if Harry passed him in the hall.

Niall sighs, Harry can see it in the way his shoulders rise and fall, and pokes at Harry's ribs, "Come on, Hazza, Li's just looking out for you."

"Why?" Harry asks softly, unsure of what could be so bad about Louis Tomlinson. Sure, he works as a bartender on the weekends, but he's sweet and nonjudgemental. Those two things rarely find their way to Harry anymore.

No one wants to deal with the pathetic boy that can't get over his girlfriend's suicide.

Niall takes a turn to purse his lips, debating whether or not he should tell Harry the truth. Of course, he does. "Because Liam doesn't think you're ready to go on dates just yet."

_Date?_

The confusion must be evident enough on his face, because Niall elaborates like it should be obvious, "Isn't that why you wanted Lou's number? Because you wanted to go out with him?"

"As friends," Harry says weakly, a new wave of something crashing over him. It takes a few minutes for him to surface from it, and by the time he does, "Find A Way" by Safetysuit is vibrating along his spine. 

Niall is waiting pateintly, looking concerned and maybe a little bit amused, "Harry? Why are you so surprised?"

"It wasn't a date," he defends, feeling slightly dizzy as he pushes up to a sitting position. Reaching blindly for his phone, he says softly, uncaring if Niall can actually hear him, "Was it?" Before he can identify exactly what it is that's warring for space in his chest with the pain, he's already sending a text to Louis:

_plz dont hate me. sorry sorry sorry. make it up to you with a mixed tape and tea...or coffee if youre into that?_

He wants to send a smiley face, since that seems to be a thing Louis likes, but he's afraid it'll be dumb. He's always afraid it'll be dumb, but there's something about this that seems vastly more important. He isn't entirely sure if he's trying to find out if  _Louis_ thought it was a date, or if Louis hates him, or if maybe it  _could_ be a date. 

He just isn't sure. He rarely ever is.

And then his phone is beeping in his hand and he doesn't have time to be unsure anymore:

_no_

The weight of those two simple letters presses into Harry like a freight train. He wants to try to explain himself, or maybe even beg for a chance to redeem himself. But he doesn't. He just ignores Niall touching his shoulder questioningly and stares dejectedly down at his phone. He nearly drops it when another text comes in:

_make it a mixed CD and youve got yourself a deal. when?_

Harry's heart soars so fast he feels faint, and then it's crashing back into his chest with a force that actually knocks him back onto his back. He aches, though he isn't sure if it's in relief or in pain. All he knows is that now he has to find a CD to give to Louis and he has to come up with somewhere to go and he has to borrow a few bucks from Niall because Liam certainly won't give it to him if he knows it's for a coffee possibly date.

So he types out a quick:

_whenever you want_  

And then he turns to Niall with the biggest pleading eyes he's ever given the Irish boy, letting his lower lip jut out just a little, "Can I borrow twenty quid?"

"For your date?" Niall taunts playfully, already digging in his pockets for the money. Unlike Liam, he accepts when Harry says he's ready to do something instead of prodding to make sure he's  _really_ ready.

It's not like Harry ever is  _really_ ready to do anything anyway.

Harry only nods, not even really listening because of the text that's staring back at his grinning face:

_i always want :)_

-

Louis wants to punch Zayn in the face. He won't, of course, because violence isn't even a remote possibility for him. He's too not-serious to ever resort to that. But, well, he's seriously considering making an exception for this.

"Relax, you wanker. He was practically begging you to not hate him. Stop crying and c'mere. He's totally flirting with you," Zayn waves the phone from his spot on his bed, grinning and looking about four years old.

Louis doesn't want to admit it, but he immediately perks up and wipes off his damp cheeks, "No way. He doesn't even talk to people, liar."

"Well, come explain this to me," Zayn taunts, typing out a message and grinning like he's got a secret.

Louis scrambles over faster than he wants to admit, actually squealing when he sees the screen through his glasses with perfect clarity. Harry really _is_ flirting with him, saying that he'll happily meet Louis whenever he wants. Louis nearly keels over when he sees that Zayn's replied with "I always want :)", his cheeks heating with embarrassment, "Oh goodness."

But then Harry is responding and there isn't  _time_ to worry about being embarrassed:

_even though i stood you up :(_

And he just sounds so  _pathetically sorry_ that Louis makes the executive decision to never  _ever_ hold this over him. 

His tongue between his teeth, Louis contemplates how to next move forward. Asking to meet up  _tomorrow_ is just simply too eager (even for him, eager beaver that he is) and asking to meet up the day after is just simply too long a wait (again, eager beaver that he is). "It is  _not_ a date...officially," he reasons out loud as his thumbs move rapidly over the keys:

_no biggie luv i swearrr. starbucks by the park at noon tomorrow :)_

"Very diplomatic of you," Zayn deadpans, looking far too satisfied with himself. The usual.

"You're an asshole and I'm not getting you a Christmas card this year," Louis huffs, shuffling over to his own bed so that he can fangirl in  _privacy_. 

"You didn't get me one last year either," Zayn points out.

"Even better."

"It's also March."

"Fuck you too then."

"Stop talking to me and go back to your sexting."

_"Zayn_ , I do  _not_ sext without first having been bought dinner. I'm  _classy_."

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking last week when I accidentally walked in on you doing that thing with the vas--"

"You can't prove anything."

Silence falls for a few moments, filled only with Louis typing away on his phone and Zayn making random noncommital noises to the ceiling.

"So, is it a date?"

"No."

"Louis."

"Zayn."

_"Louis."_

"Yeah, probably."

 

**Author's Note:**

> my favorite number is seven
> 
> that isn't relevant
> 
> thanks for reading and shit 
> 
> xx


End file.
